The year was coming to a close, and my favorite buzz band was doing quite well -- Subiza had just cracked the Billboard 200 -- but the words stung. This was the first time I was noticeably affected by the statement.
Perhaps it was because I secretly knew that True Panther's recent success story wasn't talented; maybe it was based on my realization that this was over the hundredth time I had heard the boring statement. Either way, I had to leave my seat.
I walked over to Jen's row and peered at her and Wilbur's computers. Our pint-sized Thumper chick was posting something on a South Park message board. Her neighbor was scrolling through his Tumblr dashboard -- which, invariably, was filled with Bible verses and motivational jpegs. I alternated my gaze for a few seconds between the two screens. Then, after yawning ferociously at my comrades, I strolled back to my seat.
Dave was switching between two tabs -- one was a fan video for Jermey Enigk's "Been Here Before," the other a lengthy article on the "art" of lucid dreaming. I apathetically asked my comrade to tell me where I should find the latter.
"Google 'lucid dreaming' -- it's the first result," he explained.
"Cool beans," I responded, without any intention of reading the piece.
I had been in my seat a mere thirty seconds before rising again. I felt like igniting some chaos; I honestly wanted to get in trouble.
There wasn't much time left in the penultimate installment of WD. After looking at the clock I concluded that I would spend the remaining minutes talking to Jen and Wilbur. There was something so desolate about that incomplete row; occasionally it emitted the audio of some tech clip Mr. V streamed, but otherwise it appeared ghostly.
"Jen, what's that you're looking at?" I inquired, immediately grasping the staleness of my question.
"I'm on a ChatRoulette clone." She paused as she finished typing some introductory message to a Finnish boy. "RandomCam. It's adequate." I gave her the expected chuckle, then moved in front of the camera. Hannes waved upon my entrance.
"Ey there. How the fuck is Finland?"
I had said that pretty loud, figuring the tens of thousands of miles that separated us required a minor decibel increase. And, predictably, Jen responded: "He doesn't have sound."
Hannes, comprehending my misstep, let out a piercing laugh. Apparently that nasally boom indicated boredom, for a second later we were staring at an obese, shirtless man stimulating his genitals.
Perhaps invariably, RC had the same flaws as CR. Jen didn't mind the creeps as much as 2010's average teenager -- they had lost all their shock and comedic value; they were like "Loading . . ." messages -- but one could only hope, when visiting a derivative of Andrey Ternovskiy's experiment, that he had visited something superior. Maybe the folks who hope to find something "like Chatroulette" truly don't understand the appeal of it -- in Jen's case, though, an argument like that would be promptly trashed.
The bell rung. I promptly ended my discussion -- which had veered into a series of inappropriate interjections -- with Wilbur and Jen.
My 5th-to-6th-period conversations with Dave were usually productive. Although we had little time to get anywhere notable, our odd energy led to certain revelations. On a breathless April day Dave confessed to me that Boys in the Sand is not only an unequivocal achievement in gay cinema, but consistently engaging. Then, on May 2, I declared Blink-182 "listenable" -- that word, coming out of my pretentious mouth, stung. But it shouldn't have, for the word and my baritone delivery cleared up my reluctant acceptance.
Nothing was said on this day's intermission.
"Dave, um, I think you're a fag't."
"Oh really -- yeah that's not hypocritical at all," he responded.
"Pretty sure I'm not gay."
He failed to even offer me his synthetic chuckle -- I had wondered if he came to a conclusion similar to mine in Web. This suspicion was raised less than two seconds after my automatic last remark. Because, without exceptions, Dave always responded to comments addressed to him. I had never seen Mr. C blank out in obvious thought. His eyes were bigger; his walking rate had increased dramatically. When it was time for my daily departure, I kept following him. And, just as I predicted, he didn't so much as indicate his awareness. Then he entered Human Physiology; I stared through the door. A long moment seemed to pass before Anthony M pushed me aside to get into HP. Wait: the class-to-class time alloted is only three and a half minutes; how come -- BZZZZZZZZZZ!
Another bell; an announcement; a declaration of hunger -- these instances symbolized time. After a pensive hour in the library (with my dearest friends) I conceited that, also, inevitably, inarguably, frustratingly, they symbolized nothing but time. I took out my revolver and shot the nearest clock. The bullet wouldn't touch that motherfucker -- it slyly glided over it. The most sardonic smile I've ever seen invaded his hands. He spoke:
"Not only is it twenty-ten: the school year's over, the year's half over, the 'best years of your life' are practically over, the quality of your life is declining and will continue to. Not only is the world ending: your friends are married and have kids and those kids play house, your health is decreasing, your drive is diminishing (if it isn't gone -- ha), your income is nonexistent, your life is almost just a hyphen on a gravestone. Not only is the universe collapsing, but each star specifically fucking hates --"
The television was still on; some guy was attempting to sell a bizarrely futuristic Swiffer. Although he wasn't as engaging as a Billy Mays, his style was equally obnoxious. I had a cold realization that my nightmare was largely fueled by this new pitchman's frightening delivery. Thus, I clicked him out of night, and lay back down.
For the next hour I thought about my dream -- its implications and lies, its underlying theme (which, of course, is entirely accurate.) I laughed at many of my mind's fancies, and grinned warmly when one hour felt like five.
I awoke on June 19 or 37 at 22:30 -- or maybe I was reading the sundial wrong.
"Jen, that looks like a cool game that only cool people would play." I tried to hide my sarcasm, for the Bloons amateur worlds are surprisingly entertaining.
"Nick," she responded immediately, "it just so happens that this is the greatest game ever."
She hid hers better. I wasn't sure how to respond. So I hissed and headed back to my seat. Dave embraced me.
"Dave, you seem like a cool person that only cool people would hug," I said. Marveling at my contrived style, Dave lightly punched me on the elbow. His manner was so held back that it bread affection. I broke my flow and dismissed his "veiled faggotry." He seemed to notice this error, as he raised his eyebrows and returned to watching a Motion City Soundtrack music video.
I wanted to take a beautiful photograph of this moment: my comrade's maturity had never been so palpable. He watched the MCS clip while two alternating expressions colored his visage. The first was a polite interest -- Anthony C had recommended the vid, and Dave said he'd give it a look. The second was an intellectual disdain. He knew what he was watching was weaker than the majority of pop-punk's already-anemic output. A possible third, which I scarcely perceived, was a fusion of the two: an admittance that the clip was bad, but a fascination at its representation of what his favorite subgenre had become.
In Gym, due to insecurity and jealousy, Anthony M called me gay, or a faggot, or something else -- who remembers anymore? As a matter of tradition, I brushed this off by returning: "So what?" Unfortunately, this misleads people -- but I sacrifice the aftereffects for the initial thrill. If I happened to be gay, most of my acquaintances would be indifferent. (There's still a hostile air toward homosexuals everywhere, but that's another entry for another blog.) Ant's one of the few bluntly homophobic folks in my town. He's in a comical minority, and -- as someone who loves mystery -- I love letting that lowlife think I'm gay.
Angelo, intervening, said something massively queer. Ant lamented this display; I hardened at its conventionality. I brushed Ang aside to talk about Vampire Weekend. I dreaded the predictability of both the upcoming conversation and the songs we would reference, but I had to elude any more Ant. One can only have so much AM in one day; I'd surpassed the limit a few times, and I could safely say nothing in life is better to avoid.
"So, bro, I think you're a cuntra," I began.
"Bu -- but we're cousins."
By the end of our sad attempts at wit, we had referenced the entire debut, its Japanese extras, and nine-tenths of Contra. "Diplomat's Son" was trashed -- our dialogue, which was so smooth that it appeared rehearsed (and it sort of was), couldn't fit in naturally. It didn't matter. This was our best example of VW fandom, and it brought a tear to my eye.
"What time is it?" Jen asked me.
"Time for you to -- ask Dave. He has all the answers."
She didn't. I smiled when her eyes remained fixated on her computer. After surveying the class, though, my mouth turned into a line. Half of them had surrendered.
"This Gatsby guy -- I love him. He's, uh, a motivated person. He created meaning in his life, ya know. His vision was so grand. I just think that he was a beautiful creature. Not gonna lie: I cried when Wilson shot him. I knew it was coming -- thanks a lot -- but it still was so depressing."
"Bro, this is Gym class," Ang said. His sarcasm was unfitting. He was too inviting to respond negatively and too uninterested to respond constructively. His lack of humanity is often confounding.
"You know that Heavy Rain track is fucking fuck f --" I cut myself off before my future was four white walls and the fetal position. This decision did make me look bipolar (as opposed to schizophrenic), but Ang, like a true friend, laughed obnoxiously enough to draw the attention off me. People lost interest and must have thought we were performing for each other. It was wonderful.
"I'm flying to Bulgaria," my Drama teacher stated.
"I'm going DTS with my besties," some annoying girl squeaked.
"I shall visit a few colleges and develop my relationship," Shvet explained.
"I don't know -- I really don't know." Dave's response came after a few moments. It touched my satisfaction, massaged my interest, and became my occupation. For a while my mind revolved around Dave's summer -- or, more accurately, my speculations on what it could be.
"Everyday we act. Now you can understand it better. We may not be able to change this -- we will always act -- but now you know it. This knowledge will help you as actors. You'll be better able to differentiate good and bad acting -- like when you watch movies. You have to observe closely. It's harder sometimes, and it's so difficult to identify acting in real life because we're all doing it all the time. So . . . just think about that."
I held back my emotions -- mostly, my laughter. The minute the first sentence ended the Trollface crawled across half of her figure. I had listened to my Drama teacher make a similar speech in Sept.; thus, I didn't bother listening to it again. I simply grasped her intonations and scrunched my cheeks together.
Contrary to what they'll tell you, they didn't rush out. They didn't jog or glide across the air. The majority of manners declared unmistakable content, granted, but as one kid said "So fuckin' glad to be out of here," the most prominent mood had its spokesman. It was a specific anger at life going exactly as expected, at each moment being a replica of a previous one.
I attempted to cry, and then decided against it. Try? That's what they were doing, right? Trying to force emotion upon themselves because historically it should be there. So anger entered me, and I was fine with that. I circled the school a few times, and paused when fate said to. Dave was standing alone on, disillusioned, right in front of the school; I approached him carefully.
"Davey boy, wanna go to BK?"
My question was too abrupt; I had promptly ruined the second best scene of the day. But, sighing, he responded in the positive.
Trying to assure him that my inquiry wasn't pre-planned, I told him we should meet up with someone -- anyone.
"You always assume I want people around me," he replied bitterly.
"It's just the air you give off," I defended. We had already started walking to our lazy destination, and I knew he wasn't about to reject my company, but I was extremely disappointed with my words.
"No, just because I'm usually in groups, bro -- no, that's just wrong. You don't know me."
After conceding quickly that "obviously" I didn't know him, I apologized. He shrugged it off. We didn't speak again 'til my comrade curiously ordered a Steakhouse burger.
"Fatty," I joked.
"True story, bro."
That was my phrase; he had snatched my phrase. After he recommended a "mad dope" band and suggested we see them at the Fillmore, I mentally forgave him.
I didn't go to sleep that night. I spent most of it writing down possible summer activities. When dawn struck, I tore up the list and arched it in the trash. After freshening up and gulping down a few cups of coffee, I exited my house. I subsequently embarked on the most serene morning walk in of my life. I had my Zune with me. A calming minimal techno mix radiated through my Shures.
My phone -- why did I take that? -- buzzed at around seven. It was Dave.
"What's up?" I said.
"E," he beamed.
